


You're Giving Me A Heart Attack

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's life is very relaxing after the War. That is, until Charlie walks back onto the British Isles...</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Giving Me A Heart Attack

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling and the Harry Potter universe. Title belongs to Green Day. I'm just playing.

Letting out a long yawn, Harry lies back beneath the tallest apple tree at the Burrow.  This is the life.  It’s unseasonably warm and dry for mid-October, and although the air is crisp, the early-afternoon sunshine is warming his charcoal-grey cardigan enough that he isn’t cold.

This is the first time ever that he’s not had anything to worry about.  It’s been five months since the battle at Hogwarts, and Minister Kingsley (he utterly _hates_ it when Harry calls it that, so he takes every possible opportunity to do so) has let him off from being involved in the trials.  He’s testified, of course, but he was allowed to do it in private, and to provide his memories for the Pensieve without standing in front of the Wizengamot.  Ron, Hermione, and Ginny have returned to Hogwarts to complete their schooling, but Harry doesn’t think he would be able to face living at the castle again.  Maybe one day he’ll return to school for his seventh year, on the continent or in Canada or something.  Maybe.  Anyway, Ron wouldn’t have gone back if Hermione hadn’t, and that makes Harry feel justified for not going back.

For now, though, he’s content simply to spend his time renovating Grimmauld Place.  He spends most weekends at the Burrow with Molly and Arthur, and the twins if they can get away from the shop.  Bill and Fleur have come for a few weekends, as has Percy, who’s dating a sweet new girl named Katharine, but he has yet to see Charlie, who went back to Romania after the end of the War.

In the last five months, he’s spent a lot of time alone.  But he doesn’t mind.  He’s never before had the freedom to do exactly whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and he’s taken the opportunity to learn some long-overdue things about himself.  Ginny had broken up with him midway through June, and to be honest that’s just made everything easier on him.

It’s Friday, a few hours after lunch, and he’s still so full that he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to move for a good hour or so.  He’s yet to be able to convince Molly that she doesn’t need to pull out every single stop for every single meal, but it’s okay.  At the moment, he has nothing to do except take a nap right where he lies.

When he wakes up, his glasses have slipped and bent, and the left side of his face is pressed into the grass.  He’s on his stomach, both of his arms trapped like chicken wings underneath him, and he can’t feel his feet.  Or his hands, he realizes as he pulls one out so he can take off his glasses.  Instead, all he’s able to do is haphazardly knock them off his face with the floppy flesh glove at the end of his arm.  At least his bones are all still there, though.  He thinks.

His neck cricks as he shifts, and he lets out a soft whimper as he rolls onto his side as gracefully as possible.  He smacks his lips and takes in a very deep breath.  Just as he’s letting it out with a shudder and shutting his eyes again, he hears a snort.

“Wha—hhmnuh?”  He jerks up, wincing as his wrist bends a funny way when he tries to use his hands to help him up.  Looking around, he sees a red-topped shape, but he can’t tell which Weasley he’s looking at, and he swipes his hands around trying to find his glasses.  “Fuck,” he mutters, barely managing to close his fingers around them and shoving them onto his face before turning back to—Charlie.  “Oh.  Hi.”

Charlie snorts again, standing up straight from where he’s leaning against the next tree over.  “Don’t act _too_ excited to see me, Harry.  Wouldn’t want Gin to get jealous.”

Grinning, Harry settles back against the tree, his eyes sliding closed again.  “I know you’re already aware of this,” he says, peeking one eye open to watch Charlie’s shirt ride up a little as he reaches up to grab an apple out of the tree, “but it’s none of Gin’s business who I’m excited to see.”

“Fair enough,” Charlie agrees.  He walks over and takes a seat with his back against Harry’s tree and takes a massive bite of his apple, leaving almost half of its white innards bare, and hums appreciatively.  “I hope Mum’s making me an apple crumble while I’m here.”

Harry slides a little lower in his seat.  His sweater slips up his back, having caught on the rough bark of the tree.  “Why _are_ you here, anyway?”

“Job interview,” Charlie says.  He spins the apple with his pinkie finger and takes another huge chunk out of it.

“At a dragon reserve?  I didn’t think there were any left in Britain.”

“The Ministry’s opening one.  They’ve been having trouble finding enough trainers, though, and they need someone to head up the reserve.  They asked me to apply.”  He wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve and surveys what’s left of his apple.

“I thought you liked Romania.”

Shrugging, Charlie nibbles at the side of his apple.  “Yeah.  But—I don’t know.  I miss Britain sometimes.  Seemed like I should at least try and get the headship.  I deserve it, you know.”

Harry snorts.  “And here I thought you were the modest one in the family.”

Charlie snickers and sits up so he can pitch his apple core far into the field.  “Everyone’s modest compared to Percy.”  He gives a great yawn.  “I’d like to live in England again,” he comments, eyes fixed on some distant point, possibly the lone tree on the next hill over.  “You miss things, living on the continent.”

“What things?”

“All sorts of things,” he says.  “Tea, for one thing.  I mean—I love a really strong coffee in the morning, but there are few things on this earth that beat afternoon tea.”  He picks between two teeth with one bitten-down fingernail.  “And shortbread.  And—I don’t know—it’s nice to have family around.”

Harry looks at his knees.  He knows how lucky the Weasleys were when all nine of them came through the war alive; he knows, because there are so many others who weren’t so lucky.  Seamus Finnigan, for instance, has gone to South America to find himself—or perhaps to lose himself—after the death of his mother.  The death of Xenophilius Lovegood has caused Luna to start wearing dark, drab clothes, and if there’s anything more tragic in Harry’s life right now, he can’t think of what it might be.

So he says nothing until Charlie nudges him.  “Hm?” he asks.

“I just wondered what you’d been doing with your time,” Charlie says.  “Obviously you’re not at school, and Mum says you haven’t been working.”

“Mostly I’ve just been renovating Grimmauld Place.  Did you know that you can get around a Permanent Sticking Charm by just ripping the wall down?”

“By hand?”  Charlie sounds appalled, and when Harry looks, he’s sitting up and has turned so that he can stare at Harry.

He grins.  “Yeah.  And it’s far more fulfilling than doing everything by magic,” he says.  “You should come over and rip something apart with me.  You’ll see.”

For a long moment, Charlie just looks at him, doubt written into the line of his arched eyebrow.  Then, he snorts and shrugs.  “Alright, I’ll do it.  When?”

“Whenever you want,” Harry says.  “Mrs Black came down last week, but there’s still plenty to be done.”  Stretching, he shifts down so that he is lying against the cool grass again.  He smacks his lips and rolls onto his side to curl up, facing away from the redhead.  “Not right now, though.  I have the rest of my nap to catch up on.”

*

By Sunday, Charlie has gotten too antsy to stay at the Burrow anymore.  He’s meant to find out about the job on Wednesday, and he’s been given leave from the reserve in Romania until then.  But his mother has spent the last two days nagging him about the burns scattered over his arms (“Just let me put some Dittany on them, Charlie, darling,”) and his lack of a date (“There’s a lovely girl who lives just up the hill—she’s a friend of Harry’s, isn’t she, dear?  Her name is Luna…”).  Harry, watching this, offers to let him stay in the extra bedroom at Grimmauld Place, and they leave the Burrow through the Floo with grins on their faces.

But in the two days since he’s been home, Harry has forgotten how much of an utter disaster the place is.  He had spent the last week ripping up the tile in the kitchen, and so they step out of the fireplace onto gritty concrete.  The table has been Reduced and is sitting on top of the breadbox like it’s come out of a doll’s house.  The doors have been pulled from all the cabinetry and the drawer faces have been stripped, and Harry steps into the middle of the room, putting his arms out like he can shield the mess from Charlie’s eyes.

“Don’t look,” he requests.  “I’m sorry—I forgot it looked like this.”

But Charlie, who’s just stepping out of the grate, just shoves his hands in his pockets.  “You did tell me it was being renovated,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, but I…well, I suppose I wasn’t expecting anyone was going to come over anytime soon.”  Harry looks around, smoothing down the back of his hair, and finally gestures to the door.  “Let’s go to the parlour.  I haven’t started in there yet.”  As they leave the kitchen, he calls Kreacher to bring them tea.

The parlour looks much the same as it always has: once-lush Persian rugs gone threadbare; a scratchy dark-coloured loveseat; a huge grand piano in need of refurbishment—possibly the only thing in the entire room that Harry intends to keep—and two large wingbacks upholstered in green velvet, which is where they sit now, next to the fireplace, in which Dobby is just stoking a flame.

“Look,” Harry says, because he feels he needs to mention this, “I know you probably won’t take your mum’s advice, but in case you’ve been thinking of it, you should know that my friend Luna’s seeing someone.”

Charlie hums, taking the cup of tea that Kreacher was offering him.  “Yeah—don’t worry about it,” he says, and slurps at the steaming mug.  “I remember meeting her at Hogwarts.  She’s—not really my type.”

Nodding, Harry sips at his own tea.  It’s hot, but not too hot; Kreacher has learned just how Harry likes his earl grey.  He rests the cup against the armrest.  “You should probably also know that Fred and George tell people you’ll shag anything on two legs,” he admits.  Charlie doesn’t look surprised.

“Yeah, well, nobody’s really sure those boys aren’t shagging each other,” Charlie replies.  Harry stares at him, trying to tell if he’s serious or not, and for a long few moments they stare in total silence.  Then Charlie snorts and Harry loses it, spilling his tea all over the rug as he’s laughing too hard to hold onto it.

When they finally calm down enough to wipe the tears from their faces, Harry gets to his feet, abandoning his now empty teacup on the mantle.  “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” he offers.

Charlie gets up too, still snickering to himself, and slurps up the last large swallow of tea before following Harry.  He lets out a rasping breath as he goes.  “Fuck— _hot_ ,” he gasps, pressing the flat of his tongue against his arm, and Harry cackles as he leads the way up toward Regulus’s bedroom.

*

It turns out that Harry really likes living with Charlie, so much that when Charlie gets the job at the new British Reserve, he offers Regulus’s old room to Charlie permanently.  And all of a sudden, Grimmauld Place is being fixed up far faster, and Harry’s sure it won’t be long before they’ll have to vacate the bedrooms to take those apart.  For now, though, they’ve finished the kitchen and started on the parlour.

Harry has been thinking about what he wants his kitchen to look like since he was young and scrubbing Petunia’s sterile white tiles, and what he’s ended up with is unstained bamboo hardwood floors, orangey-red cabinetry, brushed-steel appliances, and a lovely magical window over the sink that looks out on a nice little garden that reminds Harry of the Burrow.  Kreacher and Dobby keep a fire in the grate nearly all the time, even if it’s only just burning enough for there to be embers, but it’s cosy and warm and he loves coming home to it.

He’s planning on carrying the bamboo throughout the house—except for the bathrooms—and, though he hasn’t figured out the paint job for the parlour, the hall, or frankly anywhere else, he’s sure it will come to him.  And if it doesn’t, Charlie’s actually pretty good at interior design.  This is something that Harry really kind of hates him for, because he has yet to find anything that Charlie isn’t good at, which just ticks Harry off.  It’s not that Harry isn’t good at things—and he’s finding it easier and easier to be proud of the fact—but it’s only select things: cooking, Quidditch, watching Teddy.  He really _sucks_ at some things, too, though, and he’s yet to find anything that Charlie can’t do.

There is something else Harry knows he’s getting quite good at, and that’s falling for Charlie.  It’s beginning to worry him, actually, because Charlie has gotten very good at leaving the shower right as Harry passes his bathroom on the way to the kitchen for breakfast, and Harry’s gotten very good at looking-not-looking at the cutouts of Charlie’s hips against his freckled skin.  He still hasn’t found out what Charlie’s type is, except that it’s not Luna, but as Luna’s rather a special brand, that doesn’t really help much.  In the meantime, Charlie’s tendency to wander around half-nude has him strung up tighter than a bowstring.

*

They are completely shittered when the question Harry’s been dreading finally gets asked.  He’s lying on his back on the floor of the kitchen, his legs straight up in the air above him so he can examine how odd his feet are, when Charlie, who has been sitting on the table, clatters down to join him.  “Hey, why’d you and Ginny break up?” he asks.  He rolls onto his stomach and props his chin in his hands to look at Harry.

Letting his feet fall back to the floor, his heels bumping harder than he’d intended, Harry lets his eyes fall closed.  He had expected to feel more worried about this moment.  “We both wanted to date other guys.”

Charlie begins to laugh hysterically, poking him in the ribs.  “You mean you wanted to date other girls,” he chokes out.

“What?  No.  Girls are gross,” Harry says.  His nose wrinkles and, squinting, he begins to count the spots in front of his eyes.

But Charlie’s just sat up, and turns to look at Harry with eyebrows raised.  “You like—are you gay?”

“Oh, my, yes,” Harry hums.  “Breasts sort of…frighten me, you know.”  Suddenly it occurs to him that this might bother Charlie, and he sits up too, groaning when the blood rushes from his head.  He waits until his vision clears and then focuses on the redhead.  “That doesn’t make you…uncomfortable, does it?”

When Charlie turns to him, his hair is sticking up in several different directions from where he’s been pulling at it.  Harry sways a little bit toward him, dragged in by the gravity of his dark blue eyes.  Though he doesn’t mind, he’s pretty sure it isn’t him who falls forward, slamming their lips together.

Charlie’s mouth is hot and silky, but his teeth and his attitude are rough, and before he knows it, Harry’s on his back again, the other man kneeling over him, both of them breathing hard as they stare at one another.  Harry can’t think of anything to do but giggle.  “You too?” he asks.

Sticking out his lower lip and crossing his arms over his chest, Charlie sits down on Harry’s stomach, looking for all the world like a sulking child.  “You’ve had me running ragged since I moved in,” he explains.  “I didn’t think it was possible to be so attracted to someone who wields a sledgehammer.”  When Harry snickers again, grabbing for Charlie’s hand, he is quickly overpowered, his hands pinned above his head as Charlie leans down.  “Don’t laugh.  I thought you liked girls or I would never have kept my hands off.”

“Guess I’m your type, then,” Harry says, and he can’t help it—he cracks up.  He doesn’t know, exactly, why he’s so entertained by all of this, but when Charlie shuts him up with a bruising kiss, he isn’t particularly bothered.

“Frankly,” Charlie replies, chewing hard on the pulsepoint under Harry’s jaw, “Fred and George are right: almost anyone’s my type.  But, yeah—you get me going.”  To illustrate his point, he grinds his hips down against Harry’s, making them both very aware of the other’s arousal.

Testing how tightly Charlie is holding his wrists, Harry shifts his head to the side as much as he can to allow the redhead more space.  “What’s wrong with Luna?” he asks.

Chuckling, Charlie licks his way up Harry’s neck in the general direction of his earlobe.  “Nothing.  She’s very much my type,” he admits, and sits up a little so they’re looking at each other.  “But not as much as you.”

Harry attempts to sit up, succeeding in bringing their faces a few inches closer before his shoulders protest and he slumps back down with a whine through his nose.  Charlie just laughs at him, one hand sliding down the inner part of Harry’s arm and fiddling with the top button of his shirt.  Drawing in a sharp breath, he watches Charlie’s lips curve up as that first button is slipped through its buttonhole.

But when he stops, Harry squirms, bucking upwards and forcing Charlie to rest his entire weight against his chest to keep him still.  “Would you just fucking _hurry up?_ ” Harry snaps.  “And— _Christ_ —would you just—just let me touch you!”

“Fine,” Charlie replies, letting go of Harry’s wrists and propping himself on his elbows, positioned on either side of Harry’s head.  “Should we take this upstairs?”

“Too far.”  Grabbing the front of Charlie’s shirt, Harry drags him down into another kiss.  As soon as their lips are locked, he yanks at the hem of the redhead’s shirt, scraping his fingernails up his chest just as Charlie’s teeth bite particularly hard at his lower lip.  He mewls, his head falling back against the hardwood as he pulls even harder at Charlie’s shirt, which is caught under his arms.  But Charlie’s too busy divesting him of his own shirt to help out, and for a few moments they struggle against one another, each attempting to undress the other.  “God, _fuck!_ ”

Charlie sits up again.  “Stop,” he orders.  When Harry pouts, he grins and leans down to kiss him slightly more gently than before.  “We’ve got to work together.”  It’s with a laugh that he pulls his shirt off over his head, and he takes the occasion to shift so he’s kneeling between Harry’s legs.  “Now yours.”

With Harry working from the top and Charlie working from the bottom, it’s only moments before they’ve got Harry’s shirt unbuttoned.  He sits up halfway in order to pull off the dress shirt and then his undershirt before lying back down, grabbing for Charlie’s neck and dragging him back down.  His legs hook around Charlie’s back and they both groan as their sweat-damp chests stick together.

Harry’s too busy clinging to Charlie’s muscular shoulders to touch him the way he’s being touched, Charlie’s fingertips exploring his chest and sides.  All he finds himself able to do is rut up against Charlie and mewl every time the redhead’s fingertips graze a particularly sensitive spot.

When Charlie relinquishes his lips, he takes a gasping breath and manages to unclamp his hands from Charlie’s back.  Whimpering against Charlie’s ear as the man chews at his neck, he begins his own mapping adventure across his torso.

He begins to babble as Charlie’s hands slip-slide down his torso, his thumb tracing the curve of his ribs and then his hips.  “God—just—just _fuck me_ already!” he finally cries, shuddering hard when Charlie snickers against his skin, his breath giving him goosebumps.

“Mm, yeah,” Charlie replies.  He palms the front of Harry’s denims, and for a few long moments they just rock against each other.  Then the heat becomes too much and Harry growls, unclamping his hands from Charlie’s waist and clawing at the clasp on his own trousers.  Sitting up, Charlie watches him fumble with the fastenings, rubbing himself through the thick fabric of his own denims.

Just as Harry moves to press one hand into his pants, Charlie mutters an incantation.  Harry’s wrists, bound by some invisible silky cord, fly up above his head to pin there.  He lets out a long, low moan.  “Fuck _you_ ,” he breathes, but the gasp he lets out a second later is squeaky as Charlie licks the line of hair leading down from his navel.

“All in good time, darlin’.”  A second later, Harry’s denims and pants have been pulled down, and Charlie is shuffling back to take them all the way off.  Harry squirms, his cock standing throbbing and purple up from his body, as his roommate gets to his feet to unbutton his own trousers.  He watches, rapt, as the redhead lets the material fall, and has to close his eyes for a moment to keep from coming untouched at the thought of Charlie going commando.

“Do you always go pantsless?” he asks, eyes still shut.  He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle it if Charlie says yes.  There is a chance—less slim than he would like—that he might just implode.

Listening as Charlie’s knees hit the floor again and shifting into the touch at his thigh, he chews on his lip, waiting for an answer.  “Not when I’m working—the chafing on dragonhide trousers is fucking awful, so you’ve got to wear something.  But I get sick of it, you know—so usually when I’m off work I don’t bother with pants.”  He seems to know that Harry needs a moment, because he continues to rub light circles against the inside of his knee and waits until he opens his eyes again.

“I can’t believe you’ve spent the last two months wandering around my house without pants,” he mutters.  He glares when Charlie chuckles, but a moment later, the redhead is pressing his lips to his inner thigh, working his way closer to his groin.  Arching up to the best of his ability, he digs his heel into Charlie’s back as if this will help pull him closer.

He presses up as Charlie’s lips meet the corner where his leg meets his crotch, but the redhead just lifts those dark blue eyes to look at him and smirks.  His mouth slips downward, past his balls, and next thing he knows, Harry can’t see anything but his brain and can’t feel anything but the tongue that’s slowly fucking him.

Pulling against the magical restraints holding his arms down, Harry uses sheer strength to undulate his body, rhythmically attempting to take Charlie’s tongue deeper.  His eyes are squeezed shut and so he can’t see Charlie watching him, but Charlie’s grunts are mingling with his cries, pleas, and moans and if he could think, he would know that Charlie is enjoying this as much as he is.

After what seems like years—but can’t possibly be more than a few minutes—Charlie sits back, one hand holding Harry’s leg propped against his shoulder, the other circling his cock.  His lips are nothing short of scarlet, and they stare at each other for a long moment as Harry catches his breath.  “Are you finally going to fuck me now?” he finally asks, rocking up into the motion of Charlie’s fingers on his leg.

“I don’t think you’re in much of a position to be demanding.”  But Charlie is smirking and scooting forward.  He leans over and palms the wand in Harry’s discarded jeans, Summoning the tiny bottle of vanilla extract that Harry uses in his tea.

“Don’t use all of that!” Harry protests.

Charlie looks up, one eyebrow raised and lightly slaps Harry’s ass.  “I’ll buy you more.  Calm down.”  Unstopping it, he pours nearly half the bottle into his palm, ignoring Harry’s mutters, and then pauses.  “Unless, of course, you’d rather I didn’t fuck you at all?”

“ _God_ , you’re a bastard,” Harry snaps, but he’s squirming and wrapping his legs around Charlie and dragging him closer.  “Hurry up, then.”

Laughing, Charlie lines himself up and presses in.  They both gasp sharply, and Harry’s leg slips from Charlie’s shoulder as the latter leans forward to kiss him again.  Harry mewls at the flavour of himself on Charlie’s lips and the pain in his shoulders as he tries to stretch himself even further to impale himself on his dick.

Charlie breaks the kiss and props himself on his left hand, his right taking bruising hold of Harry’s hip for leverage as he withdraws most of the way from his body, pauses to watch as Harry takes a deep breath in, and then fucks back in, slamming the breath out of him again.  He releases Harry’s arms, though the younger man doesn’t realize immediately, and skates his hand up Harry’s chest to tweak a nipple.

Harry’s eyes fly open on a sharp groan, and he grabs Charlie’s arm where it’s propped next to his head.  His heels press into Charlie’s arse, and their pace becomes suddenly fast and loud, the warm kitchen filled with the slap of skin on skin and the curses falling from their lips.

It’s barely any time at all before Harry’s hand unclamps itself from Charlie’s wrist and he reaches down his body to begin jerking himself off.  With his other hand flat on the floor to help, he rolls his hips to meet every thrust of Charlie’s, and brings himself off, shouting aloud, in several short strokes.

Charlie leans forward again, his rhythm faltering a bit as he licks a bit of come from where it’s splattered over Harry’s nipple.  Harry’s hand slides into his hair and yanks, and biting down on the nub, he comes into Harry’s supple body.

For several moments, neither of them moves.  Then, gradually, Harry’s fingers unclench from Charlie’s hair, and he pets down the unkempt strands.  His legs slide down from around Charlie’s waist, forcing the redhead’s softening cock to slip from his body.

“Should’ve done that sooner,” Charlie finally murmurs, licking at the reddened mark on Harry’s skin before slowly sitting up.  Harry hums in agreement, waiting for a minute before sitting up as well.

He moans and clutches at his head.  “Fuck—I’d forgotten I was drunk,” he mutters.  Charlie snorts and begins to cackle when Harry sticks his tongue out at him.  “Good time to be mean, this, just after I’ve let you fuck me.”

“ _Let_ me?” Charlie laughs.  “You practically _begged_ me.”  Harry just turns up his nose.  “Fine.  You didn’t beg me for it.  Let’s get you up to bed.”  Getting to his feet, he holds a hand out to haul Harry to his feet and catches him when he stumbles.

“No laughing when you tuck me in, okay?”

“Tuck you in?”  Letting Harry start first up the stairs, he reaches out to pinch his arse.  “I’m planning on staying there with you.”


End file.
